


got that glitter on my eyes

by littledust



Category: Glee
Genre: Clubbing, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:31:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4305180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before the S2 Nationals, Santana and Brittany go to a gay club... with the rest of the glee club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got that glitter on my eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a tumblr prompt fic from *mumblety* years ago. Title from "We R Who We R" by Ke$ha.

"This is a freaking stupid idea," Santana grumbles as Brittany wraps the last locks of her hair around the curling iron. The mirror in their Nationals hotel room is far superior to the small, grime-streaked mirrors of McKinley High, but that does little to calm her churning stomach. Kurt invited both of them to go to gay clubbing, Brittany lit up at the idea of dancing the night away, and now Santana is stuck. "How many dance remixes of the Indigo Girls can there be, anyway?"

"I don't think you'll have to fight off other girls with such a tall girlfriend," Brittany says with a smile. "'Cause my arms are way, way longer and I'm good at throwing elbows."

"Yeah," Santana says, unplugging the curling iron and setting it down so that she can hug Brittany. Brittany puts an arm around her and keeps applying eyeliner with the other hand because she's ridiculously coordinated, the bitch. "I guess I'm scared," she says, even though she knows Brittany already knows, because sometimes talking about feelings helps or whatever. "I know it's New York, but what if people say I'm not butch enough? Or if there are straight guys there who bother us? Or if we can't con our way into free drinks?"

"It's a gay club," Brittany says, giving her a peck on the cheek. "I'm a little confused about how us non-gays are going to get in, but Rachel says that Tina and I don't have to combine our lady-liking halves like a lesbian Power Ranger."

"You and Tina are allowed in a gay club, oh my God," Santana says, rolling her eyes. "Wait, why is the entire club coming with us? I thought it was just me, you, the gays, and their hag."

"They're excited about being in New York, too. Plus we don't have to lock ourselves in the hotel rooms to write songs again, so we don't even have to escape! Mr. Schue won't notice we're gone."

"Mr. Schue is a moron," Santana says. She shakes her head, letting her hair swing around her shoulders. She might be a secret wuss, but nobody can deny that she has swagger. "What's our plan for getting the hotel room when we get back?"

"Tell Mercedes the truth, and push Quinn into the other girls' room and tell Rachel that she wants a sleepover," Brittany says promptly. "Let's go! The dance party starts any minute now."

They creep down the hallway and into the elevator without being spotted by either of their so-called chaperones. When the elevator doors slide shut, Santana and Brittany exchange looks and start giggling. "C'mere," Santana says, and gives Brittany a kiss that isn't supposed to be too graphic but ends up with her sliding a hand under skirt, skimming the inside of her thigh.

"This is like cheerleader camp all over again," Quinn sighs.

"I knew it," Puck says, earning him a glare.

It turns out that she and Brittany are the last to arrive. The rest of the club is waiting in the lobby, dressed to the nines. 

"Let's roll, bitches!" Artie says. Christ on a cracker, what is he going to do in a gay dance club? In response to the face she is no doubt making, Artie says, "Kurt asked the guy he knows at NYADA and the place is supposed to be accessible. I'm going to bond with the DJ."

"I'm going for the food," says Sam, to Finn's emphatic nod.

"Somebody please explain to me why the whole club is horning in on Dicks and Dykes Night," Santana says, hands going to her hips. "What the actual fuck?"

Kurt clears his throat, raising a hand. "I believe that certain members of our group expressed concern about just a few of us being out on our own in a dance club seedy enough to let underage high schoolers in. The term 'safety in numbers' was thrown about. Mothers and fathers were invoked."

"I solemnly swore on my favorite Fluevogs to be the DW," Tina says, shrugging.

"So you're the designated walker?" Brittany asks.

"Slash map person, yeah."

"This is our last outing as the original members of New Directions," Rachel says, turning shining eyes on the group.

"It's closure for the old group and catalyst for the new," Blaine says, and oh my God, he's doing the doe eyes as well. Santana is never going to be able to watch _Bambi_ again.

"I'm not even going to think about how long you spent on that tiny speech, hobbits. Get moving before there's a line," Santana says. "What are you all looking at? Move it!"

*

"This is the most illegal thing that has ever happened to me," Blaine whispers.

Santana rolls her eyes and makes irritated shushing motions in case the bouncer decides to change his mind about the obviously fake IDs mixed in with the real. "Like this is the most illegal thing that's ever happened in New York City." The club is 18+, so technically most of them are allowed in, but Puck gave the juniors' school IDs the patented Puckerman treatment. Santana brought her fake so she can man up and get her woman drinks, or however lesbians are supposed to do it.

The club is exactly as seedy as promised. It's too dark to see much of the decor, but the theme is definitely "sketchy basement chic." Half the people inside are either still in high school or barely out, and a third of those have drinks in their hands despite their lack of appropriate bracelet. Santana relaxes a little, especially after a dude with a mohawk tells her, " _Fabulous_ dress," and a leggy brunette winks at her from the bar. Hell yes, her people are here.

Warm arms slide around her waist. "I want a Sex on the Beach," Brittany says right in her ear, just audible over the thumping club music.

"You got it," Santana promises, and joins the parched hordes at the bar. The rest of New Directions is clustered in a huge group like separating will get them murdered. Most of the girls are tapping their feet, though, and when Brittany drags Quinn out on the dance floor, the rest follow. Kurt and Blaine dance up alongside a smiling Mercedes. All three of them burst into laughter when Sam slides up to them with some stupid dance move probably copied from a _Step Up_ movie. God, how did she ever date that guy?

Someone elbows past her on the way to the bar. Lips pulled back into a snarl, Santana weaves through the crowd. It's too loud to shout at the _seriously_ ugly people standing between her and a tall glass of something, but she _will_ throw elbows. "Sex on the Beach!" she shouts to the bartender. "And a PBR!"

She's not made of money, okay? Cocktails are stupid expensive but her girlfriend gets what she wants.

"I like a lady who acts like a gentleman," says the leggy brunette from before, sidling up to her. Before Santana can do more than splutter with outrage, she adds, "Spending the big bucks on your girlfriend instead of yourself. What do you actually want to drink?"

Santana tosses her hair over her shoulder. "Something with tequila," she says, bold as she can while secretly panicking. Five minutes in a New York City club and she's already turning down the offer of a threesome. Unsurprising, because she and Brittany are super hot, but they're also super exclusive and Santana can't explain why without going into their history and all of her stupid feelings, and--

"Two margaritas on the rocks, salt on the rim," Santana's new best friend orders. "Donate her PBR to the hottest broke girl at the bar." Turning back to Santana, she winks again. "Relax, small fry. Call this drink your big dyke-y welcome from New York City. Hope you and the girlfriend have a great night."

And just like that, she's gone, freshly made margarita in hand.

"I didn't even ask her name," Santana says, words lost in the sudden blast of Ke$ha. The crowd loses it, of course. Over on the dance floor, Mike and Brittany have drawn a crowd with their sick moves. She's pretty sure every gay man in the club wants a piece of Mike. (Except Kurt and Blaine, who are gazing into each other's eyes like they're dancing a freaking waltz. Ugh.)

The margarita is exactly what the doctor ordered. Santana's grinning again as she passes Brittany her cocktail. Brittany executes this perfect little jump-twirl thing without spilling a drop, then wraps an arm around Santana's waist. She hesitates, biting her lower lip as she looks down at Santana.

Santana turns her face up for a kiss, right there in front of everyone. The smile Brittany gives her is a better rush than clubbing and illegal drinking combined, and her kiss is hot and sure and _perfect_.

When they break apart, Brittany is wearing Santana's lipstick in places lipstick doesn't generally go. Laughing, Santana brushes away the smears with her thumb. Across the room, Puck looks up from his conversation with Finn and Artie to give her a total bro nod, like now he's too mature to catcall at pretty girls making out or something. Santana toasts him with her margarita, then swears as a little slops over the rim and onto her hand. Whatever, a night of clubbing always leaves you sticky one way or another.

Which is right when a drunk person (guy? girl? neither?) stumbles by, spilling their entire drink on the floor. Definitely a sticky night.

Santana finishes her margarita, trying not to think about her ruined shoes. She _likes_ these heels, damn it.

"Hey, hey, wait for me!" Brittany says, and polishes off her own drink.

After the kiss, Brittany won't let Santana go long enough to get back to the bar, which is fine by Santana. Puck brings them over another round because he's not so bad despite having the worst hair of all time. The club music is an earsplitting combination of completely awful and amazing, the floor just keeps getting filthier, everyone in the club is in some stage of drunkenness, and this is still the greatest thing that's ever happened to her. Dancing here, in public, with her friends but mostly with her _girlfriend_ , the way she's always wanted but never dared to in Lima.

"We should head back!" Kurt yells after a few hours. It could be a few days for all Santana cares, warm and happy in Brittany's arms. "I love this as much as you do, despite the sanitary conditions, but I'd rather not humiliate myself onstage tomorrow!"

Santana flips him off, but in, like, an almost affectionate way. She kind of loves everyone right now. Even Quinn, who is a total bitch, and Berry, who is still the most annoying human being on the face of the planet. And Brittany, she loves Brittany _so much_ it makes her want to cry.

"When the crying starts, we leave," Brittany prompts her, repeating their mantra from freshman year of high school, when Santana discovered she's a crier when she's drunk.

"You're the best," Santana mumbles, tucking her face against Brittany's neck. "I seriously love you in every way. Hey, the floor is spinning."

"I'm going to carry you home. Mostly because you're drunk, but also I get to touch your butt."

"It's only for you," Santana says, and Brittany kisses her forehead.

Laughing, tipsy, they stumble back to the hotel with their friends.


End file.
